In a Heartbeat (3 page)

‘We don’t know. We found him unconscious near Viale Monza. Does this happen often?’

‘No, never. Come here Saint, please. Oh, my God, you’re freezing.’

The apartment was huge; the entire stage of La Scala could have fitted inside easily. A long corridor opened up to the arches of a huge sitting room furnished with bizarre and expensive-looking furniture. A flight of stairs with a polished brass banister led to the top floor. A stainless-steel kitchen with a marble table could have accommodated and fed a regiment. The woman took me by the hand and dragged me towards the long sofa. She lay me down and then went back into the corridor. I heard the muffled voices of her and the policemen.

‘I don’t know how to thank you. Can you accept money?’ she said as she went though her purse.

‘No thanks, don’t worry about it. We’re just doing our job.’

My right arm swung against a small glass table. I hit my wrist against the corner; the pain provoked my first autonomous reaction: I moved my hand along the smooth surface. There was a glass with a little wine still left in it that had spilled, as well as a newspaper and a long, hard plastic object with an irregular surface. I brought it slowly to eye level.

‘I won’t tell anyone. I just want to thank you.’ The woman’s voice was an octave too high.

‘Well, if you insist.’

It was a Sony remote control with a set of buttons that I couldn’t quite make out. I pressed one, and a section of the wall in front of me lit up. What I thought was a black painting turned out to be a television set as big as everything else in the house. Even in my state of total confusion I was blown away by the colours and the clarity of the images, better than the ones in a cinema. I flicked though the channels. When the strange woman had walked the policemen to the door and come back to me my eyes were still fixed on the screen.

‘Saint, what happened? You scared the hell out of me’ she said, kneeling down next to me. ‘Saint, what’s wrong?’

I gasped. ‘Look.’

‘What?’

I pointed to the television screen. It was the face of a smiling Kurt Cobain. ‘He’s dead, he really killed himself.’

‘Saint … ’

‘When did this happen?’

‘I don’t know, Saint. A long time ago.’

I closed my eyes. ‘What year is this?’

‘What?’

‘What year is this? Just tell me, dammit!’

I finally began to understand.

3

From the time that I took that heavy blow to the head and the time that I woke up at La Scala, fourteen years had passed.
Fourteen years!
A lifetime. I had forgotten all of them. It couldn’t be. I had seen a lot of weird things in my time, but I was too tired to come up with any explanation. I felt feverish and weak, as if I was recovering from a long illness.

The woman helped me take off my wet clothes and dressed me in flannel pyjamas printed with umbrellas and telephones. Then she made me some tea. I had switched off the TV, but Kurt Cobain’s face kept coming back to me, like the first time that I had heard the acoustic version of “The Man Who Sold the World.” No. I had forgotten about that as well … like the woman who was in front of me.

Her name was Monica. We sat in front of the lit fireplace in the living room of a penthouse with walls almost entirely covered with books and CDs, except for one. On that wall hung a monstrous iron and wooden crucifix a couple of metres tall. I could tell that the piece was antique and very expensive. Another time I would have thought about how to get it out and fence it, even if it took a crane.

Monica slowly turned the cup in her hands, biting her lip, trying not to look at me. ‘Tell me again what happened to you.’

‘I don’t have much to say. I woke up in the toilet. Before that, my life was normal.’

‘What was the last thing that you remember?’

‘Hmm, let’s see. I was at home, drinking.’ More or less that was the case.

‘What year was it?’

‘It was 1991.’

She held her breath. ‘Are you kidding?’

‘Do I look like I’m kidding?’ The tea stank of jasmine. ‘Do you have anything better?’

She seemed surprised. ‘What would you like?’

‘Anything, just as long as it’s alcohol.’

She got up from the sofa and went to an antique table where there were a few bottles. She poured some whisky. I knocked mine back while she sipped hers.

‘It’s strong,’ I said.

‘You’re not used to it.’ She noticed the perplexed look on my face. ‘You don’t drink anymore. Not for years.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Do you need a reason to stop drinking?’

‘Whatever it was, I forgot it.’ I said raising my glass. ‘Can you fill it up please?’

‘Jesus Chris’ She didn’t take my request well and tried to stay calm. Then she picked up the bottle and handed it to me.

I filled my glass and then hers.

‘I was short-sighted, now I can see.’

‘You had an operation.’

‘I see.’

‘Laser surgery.’

‘Really?’

We sat in silence for a good long minute. ‘It’s called amnesia.’ She muttered. ‘It’s when—’

‘I know what it is. Do you think I’m stupid?’

‘You’re being rude.’

‘
You’re being rude.
’

I mimicked tiredly.

She sighed. ‘Saint, look at me.’

‘Stop calling me Saint, it’s gay.’

‘I said look at me.’

I looked at her.

‘Saint … Santo. I’ll stay calm for you and for me. Even if you tell me things that will hurt me, I’ll stay calm, so please stop trying to provoke me.’

‘Your hands are shaking.’

‘Shit! I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth.’ She smiled so tightly that I thought her teeth would crumble out of her mouth. She poured a little more whisky and started to enjoy it. ‘So you got hit on the head?’

‘Fourteen years ago.’ I treaded carefully here. ‘But now I’m fine.’

‘No, you’re not.’

I looked at my right palm. ‘I only have this burn mark.’ I‘d noticed it when she’d taken off my wet clothes.

‘Let’s have a look. Does it hurt?’

‘Yeah, a bit.’

It was almost a perfect red square imprinted in the centre of my hand. She scratched away at something black near the wound with the tip of her fingernail.

‘Ouch, that hurts!’

Monica sniffed her nail. ‘It’s plastic.’ What did you touch?’

‘There was a light switch in the toilet that was burning when I came to.’

‘That’s it!’

‘That’s what?’

‘You got an electrical shock.’

‘And so?’

‘You’ve burnt your brain.’

‘I’ve never heard such crap.’

‘You wouldn’t have remembered it anyway, right?’ she said, proving her point.

Touché. I took another sip.

‘Today is my birthday,’ she said sadly. ‘Thirty-two.’

‘Happy birthday. Where’s the cake?’

‘Opera at La Scala was your present. It meant the world to me, Massenet’s
Manon
. It was sold out for months, but you managed to get tickets.’

‘Are you my wife?’

She got to her feet. ‘What? I can’t believe this! I can’t!’

‘So, you
are
my wife.’

‘No, I’m not your wife! I’m your girlfriend. We’ve been together for two years.’

I was relieved. ‘So we live together?’

‘No.’ She sat back down. ‘It’s not something that you do before the wedding.’

‘Are you serious, or do they pay you to be this crazy?’

She froze again. ‘I’ve got to be patient and understanding. You’re not normally like this. It’s the amnesia talking.’

‘More than the amnesia, I feel like I’ve been in hibernation like Buck Rogers. You do know who he is, don’t you?’

I’ve always liked science fiction. I used to buy used pocketbooks at the stand in front of the Stazione Centrale. From what I’d gathered, it’s not there anymore. I couldn’t stop thinking about time travel. My own experience was testimony to the fact that you didn’t need complicated machinery to travel into the future. All you needed was a hack on the head with a bottle.

‘No, I don’t know who the hell Buck Rogers is!’ She squeezed her fingers so tightly around the glass that they turned white. ‘Listen, we date, OK? Do you understand? We’ve sat on this sofa together hundreds of times, and now you look at me like you don’t even know me.’

‘As a matter of fact, I don’t know you.’

‘Like hell you don’t know me! We love each other!’

‘OK, let’s pretend that we do. Where do I live now?’

‘Where do you think that you live? Here!’

‘Here?’ Oh, yeah. The cops had read the address on my license.

Monica gulped down her drink. Her cheeks turned red. ‘You left your overcoat at La Scala; your keys were inside. I was scared and didn’t know what to do. So I came here. I also took your car.’

I looked around at the decor.
My
interior decoration. Some taste I’ve acquired. ‘I must be in the inner loop now. No more low profile.’

‘I think not. Beagle & Manetti is a market leader.’

‘Of what? Heroin?’

‘God give me strength! Advertising! You’re the creative director of the agency!’

My glass stopped in mid-air. ‘No way.’

Monica waved her hand in my face.

‘Yoo-hoo, hello, wake up. It’s 2005, remember? You’re not a student or whoever you were anymore.’ She poured herself another glass. She began to slur a little. ‘We work together, quote unquote, by the way.’

‘Are you also a creative director?’

‘Almost. I’m your assistant.’

‘This too? I’m screwing my secretary.’

‘Me and you, we do not screw, you jerk! WE MAKE LOVE!’

‘You make it seem like it’s a pain in the ass.’

‘You always say that you’ve never met a woman like me.’

‘I have to take your word for it. Is there anything else that I should know? Have aliens invaded us? Was there a nuclear war?’

She laughed covering her mouth. ‘Sorry.’ She kept laughing. ‘This is too absurd.’

‘Yeah, I’m having a blast. Ha, ha.’

Monica took two tentative steps and almost fell into the fireplace. Wasted. ‘Let’s go to A&E,’ she said. ‘You can tell them about the electric shock.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

I searched for the words. I couldn’t find them. I was only scared.

‘So?’

‘Leave me alone.’

She looked at me with bloodshot eyes. Alcohol had a bad effect on her. ‘You need help.’

‘I said to leave me alone! It’s
my
head.’

Monica pointed her finger at me. ‘You don’t exist, you understand? You’re just a bad memory. A ghost. You’re like … you’re like an old film on VHS. They taped over you, and the old film is just background noise. You’re like
Terminator
taped over with
Terminator 3
.’

‘They made a third one?’

‘For some reason, yeah. Let me finish this analogy before I get lost.
Terminator 3
got deleted and the old film comes through. But it’s ancient history. You have to … record it again … ’ She made the noise of a video in reverse: ‘
Frrrrrrrr.
’

‘Go to hell.’

She flung her hands in the air and then she knelt next to me. ‘How old do you think you are? Tell me, young man.’

I hesitated. ‘I have to calculate … ’

‘Come here and I’ll show you.’ She grabbed me by the arm. ‘C’mon, come.’ She pulled me through the corridor and stopped me in front of a mirror with a bronze frame, something else to steal if not for the fact that it was also mine.

In the halogen light she showed me what I had previously avoided. I looked at myself. I saw a fat guy dressed in gay pyjamas. I had not much hair, cut short, grey at the temples with a hint of a beard that was completely white. I had deep wrinkles on my forehead and bags under my eyes. I didn’t have the hoop earring in my right ear anymore. I’d worn it since I was seventeen, trying to look cool like
Corto Maltese
. The hole was scarred and closed. I rolled up the pyjama shirt. My stomach was soft and swollen with white bellybutton hair.

I was wrinkled, flabby and ugly.

Monica looked at me triumphantly. ‘I’ll tell you how old you are: forty. Whatever you were before you aren’t anymore, and you’ll never be again.’

I looked away. Touché again. That was a good one. Indeed it was.